#forgotten realms fic
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Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Forgotten Realms Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Vizaeth Xunhrae Thaezyr/Rhylfein Dyrr Characters: Vizaeth Xunhrae Thaezyr (OC), Rhylfein Dyrr (OC) Additional Tags: Drow, Pre-Vizaeth/Rhylfein, Necromancy, Eye Trauma, Mild Gore, Self Harm, Flirting, that is not how Find Familiar is supposed to work, mutilating a fellow student as a bonding exercise, i promise theyâre gonna kiss eventually, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat Series: Part 11 of Obsession
Summary:
What's a wizard without a familiar?
â
Vizaeth paces around the altar, savouring the terror in Kenafinâs eyes as they roll to extremes in their sockets, trying to follow his movement. His own blood still stains the sacrifice channels cut into the stone, and his stomach prickles at the memories the sight conjures. He wishesânot for the first timeâthat Pharaun could be here to witness this. Itâs too great a risk for him to be involved, though, and Vizaeth canât risk endangering his position. Not when heâs barely begun to make amends.
He smooths Kenafinâs hair back from his clammy forehead, smirking at the blunted moan that slips from his frozen lips. The same venom that once coursed through his veins as Pharaun claimed him now binds this blasphemous excuse for a drow to the sacrificial block, though Merdaxâs experience with it will not be nearly so transcendent. He trails his fingers over Kenafinâs cheek, his jaw, his neck. His mouth is bloodied, a tooth missing where Rhylfein hit him. For someone so slight, apprentice Dyrr has an impressive arm.
Another moanâa whimperâescapes Kenafin. It echoes off the high walls, caught by shadows and crimson torchlight. Vizaeth leans close, so his breath will brush like a razor over Kenafinâs skin.
âDo you like that?â he whispers. âDoes that feel good?â
âAre you planning to fuck him up or just fuck him?â Rhylfein calls. Heâs leaning on the workbench, nursing split knuckles from the blow that put Kenafin on his back. âHow long does that stuff last, anyway?â
Vizaeth glares at him. âHours. Less if he fights.â
âBetter get a move on, then. He likes to fight.â
Keep reading on AO3
#my fic#dnd fic#forgotten realms fic#dnd fanfiction#forgotten realms fanfiction#drow oc#oc fic#oc fanfiction#c: vizaeth thaezyr#c: rhylfein dyrr#obsession fic blogging#we got eye trauma! we got necromancy! we got flirting!#truly a fic with everything
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fortune's least favoured | Archive of Our Own
Forgotten Realms/War of the Spider Queen | E | Vizaeth/Pharaun, Vizaeth/Rhylfein | 5000 words
Tags: Angst, Emotional Manipulation, Dub-con (borderline Non-con), Toxic Relationship (heading rapidly into overtly abusive relationship territory), Oral Sex, Forced Sex, half school fic half dub-con because i contain multitudes
Summary:
Vizaeth learns a few things about Viconia, and that his poor luck where sheâs concerned is just that: poor luck. But misfortune has a way of multiplying, especially when Pharaun Mizzrym is involved.
[ID - a red decorative divider]
Sometimes Vizaeth thinks he must be cursed. How else to explain the fact that one minute heâs halfway to Rhylfeinâs room in a tangle of eager hands and heated whispers, and the next heâs cleaning blood off Viconia Despanaâs stupidâand apparently scaledâface in Master DoâUrdenâs quarters under the critical eye of Mistress Baenre and the Spider Mage.
The moment they arrived, Mistress Baenre sent Rhylfein to help Master DoâUrden with some potion or other, while Vizaeth was set to the grunt work of wound-tending. Huddled in the chair next to him, wrapped in a fancy dressing gown to replace her ruined clothes, Viconia sits and shakes like a frightened child as he scrubs at her face. There are bloody concaves where Merdax Kenafin and his cronies ripped scales from her cheek; holes in her flesh Vizaeth scrapes out thoroughly, because Viconiaâs family might be heretics but Kenafin is a blasphemer, and Lolth alone knows where his filthy hands have been.
Bootheels click towards him.
âWho taught you how to clean a wound?â
The demand cracks the silence like a whip, and Vizaeth stiffens, shaping his voice very carefully around his answer because Quenthel Baenre will flay the skin from his back for so much as an insolent syllable.
âI taught myself.â
Her eyes narrow. âThat explains a great deal. Youâre applying too much pressure.â She softens, the way Pharaun did when he spoke to Veryan after Merdax went after him. âNia, youâre being very patient.â
âI assume apprentice Thaezyr doesnât want to be here,â Viconia says quietly. âThat heâs helping at all is reason enough to be patient.â
Vizaeth pauses, the bloody cloth half-wrung over the bowl. Sheâs more perceptive than he gave her credit for.
âVery well,â Quenthel says. She pulls over a chair, and adopts a patronising, Jhinlara-like tone as she proceeds to talk him through âproperâ wound care. Why she canât just wave her hand, slap Viconia in the face and heal her with Lolthâs grace, he doesnât know. Maybe her brother hasnât managed to fuck his way through enough of the Baenre yet to grant her such expenditure of magic.
When the water in the bowl is bloodier than Viconiaâs face, Master DoâUrden appears with a poultice he foists off onto Vizaeth before conferring closely with Mistress Baenre. The way he touches her makes Vizaethâs stomach churn; heâd thought Nalfein to have saner standards. Then again, he beds a Houseless rogue, so there may be no accounting at all for his tastes.
Keep Reading: AO3 / Neocities / Dreamwidth
[ID - a red decorative divider]
Obsession taglist: @foxboyclit (ask to be +/-)
#writeblr#fanfiction#my fic#forgotten realms fic#pharaun mizzrym/oc#obsession fic blogging#c: vizaeth thaezyr#new obsession fic! come read viz having a bad time yet again!#my writing
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Elven for Astarion fanfiction
I absolutely love the idea of Astarion using Elven words and phrases
Here are some useful phrases and words you can use for fics. I specifally chose what you might find useful, for more terms you can check the sources.
Source (wiki)
Source (dictionary)
Phrases
Ai armiel telere maenen hir. - You hold my heart forever.
Aillesel Seldarie - May the Seldarine Save Us.
Al Hond Ebrath, Uol Tath Shantar En Tath Lalala Ol Hond Ebrath â A True Friend, As The Trees And The Water Are True Friends.
Besthunit Nenle â âHurry Up Slowlyâ (Eastern Lythari Dialect)
Bwaelan Dro - "It's Good to be Alive", a religious hymn of celebration.
Chu Set â âHold Calm/Calm Downâ (Eastern Lythari Dialect).
Dilit â Be Quiet (Eastern Lythari Dialect).
Es'Caerta â Deeply Emotional Plea Ending A Prayer (like Amen).
Gys Sa Salen â Give Me a Drink/I Need A Drink.
Maethe - maybe.
Ikwe - Get back!
Iorwe - Step aside!
Oloth elgg ssussun - Darkness slays light.
Seldarine! â Gods! (Expression of Exasperation).
Uluvathae (pronounced: /ËuËluËËvÉËΞeÉȘ/ Oo-loo-VAW-thay) - "[May your] fortune bring you joy". An informal greeting or parting used amongst individuals which enjoyed each other's company. Used amongst close friends, it was either seen as an insult, or as a warning that a third party was listening.
Words
aethen - "others", modern elven slang for non-elves.
alun - transgender.
amastacia - star flower.
ar - sun.
arael â heart.
aravae - great joy.
ardavanshee â Elven Juvenile Delinquent.
arivae â sunlight.
aâsum -Â daughter.
avae - joy.
avaeâess - joy bringer.
arkhlavae - lovemaking.
bhin - young human male (slang).
biir - "garbage", used as an insult against those of half-elven and human heritage.
calann - cup (oneâs hands, to hold).
daoin â star.
damia - a term of endearment directed to sweethearts or children.
ebrath - friend.
essraul â enthusiastic Slaying.
e'sum â son.
etriel - noble female elf (in bloodline, character, or both).
evae - love, absence of malice.
filliken â open skirt (Prostitute).
hond ebrath - true friend(s)
immaea - familial love, loyalty to kin and family.
immeeira - act or demonstration of love (deed, testimonial or honour, not lovemaking).
ithlil - lily.
ivaebhin - boy filled with brightness.
kerym - blade (as in blade made of steel), sword.
liyan - homosexual male (slang).
lorkh - Savage Butchers who Lost Their Elven Nature Long Ago Through Such Behavior.
mor - darkness, the true death.
nanta - destiny.
nias â agreement.
nikym â dagger.
nor - love, passion.
N'Tel'Quess - "Not-people". A derogatory term elves use to describe non-elves.
o'si - mother.
o'su - father.
penaal - battlepoet (bard).
piir - treasure.
re - bear.
ru - dream.
rua - star.
saece - crossdresser.
savalir - murderer.
sha'Quessir - elf-friend.
Sildur - "at rest after changing". Referred to an animal, insect, or plant having reached maturity after passing through a life-cycle of changes. Was later borrowed by Common as a term for transgender individuals.
solicallor - warm light of the sun.
srendaen - beautiful, only applied to things of natural beauty not to people.
srinna - One Who Tests Limits and Establishes New Boundaries.
talibund - the veiled one. referring to the creature whose future is unclear and cannot be divined.
taran - gift.
Tel'Quessir - the collective name elves use for their race. translates into common to mean, "The People".
tham - to be close to.
thor - vow, promise.
vaarnar - evil entity or sentient being.
vaendaan-naes - reborn in life's bright struggles.
vaendin-thiil - fatigued by life's dark trials.
veluthe â beautiful.
vyshaan - power-mad (derogatory).
#astarion#baldur's gate 3#bg3#bg3 astarion#astarion bg3#astarion romance#baldurs gate 3#elven#elven language#forgotten realms#dnd#astarion fanfiction#fic writing
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as a certified Conlang Enjoyer one of my favorite things is to analyze fictional language snippets for their pieces, and as i've been reading the drizzt books recently, i've been fighting a lot with how drow words work (why is this language so IRREGULAR it's worse than english istg), So!
pluralization in the drow language and how it works:
several things seem to be happening here, first, the "base" plural, is -in or -en. see: haszak/haszakkin [illithid], ilharess/ilharessen [matron]. consonant endings will also be doubled if they are not already.
then, there are the really soft consonants. think like the letter L; a word ending in the letter L would be pluralized with simply -n. see: gol/goln [goblin]. no doubling of consonants seems to happen.
in words ending with N, the pluralization marker seems to be -a. see: brorn/brorna [surprise].
then, we get some really weird endings, because the wiki has SIX recorded pluralizations. SIX. my instincts are that the three above are fairly common, and the following two are much less so and likely to be only seen in a few words, especially considering the words seen are both versions of "spider".
"orb": spider. plural, "orbb".
"lhorb": specifically a dangerous spider. plural, "lhorbbyth".
i would assume those are more archaic endings, but who knows!
then there's "rivvil", which means human, and gets pluralized to "rivvin". don't really know what's happening there, ngl, although my best guess is that it used to be "rivviln" and the L sound got swallowed into the -n by drow speaking fast, especially considering that word would likely be used most commonly during raids where a lot of things are happening and you want to get orders out fast.
there's also "kulg", which means blockage/snag/hitch, and "kulggen", which means deliberate rampart/shield. this does not necessarily break the rules seen earlier, merely implies that "shield", in drow, is literally smth along the lines of "blockages". (which, for a society built around cutthroat survival, does kinda make sense).
there is also "kyorl", which means to watch, and then "kyorlin", which means guarding/watching/waiting. that one's funky; it has the -in ending which implies plurality, but it seems instead to be a tense marker here. however, it could make sense that it literally translates to smth like "multiple to-watch" instead, and only loosely translates to watching. it could also be leftover from a shift in language; we just don't know. it also doesn't have the just -n from a word ending in L like you see earlier in goln.
you see this again in "quarth", to command, vs "quarthen", commanded/ordered. could be a tense change, could be a pluralization marker that in english encompasses a tense change.
other thing i've noticed:
apostrophes seem to be in use when words get combined. see: abbil [trusted friend/comrade] vs khal'abbil [my trusted friend/comrade]. this also implies that many words translated as one word (such as para'dene, scapegoat, or qual'laelay, argument/disagreement) are compound words as well. an apostrophe in a name might imply that it's an unconventional name, combining two words not typically used in drow names, rather than name fragments more often used.
other cool things, assumtions, and speculation:
qu'ellar [house], qu'lith [blood], and qu'uente [guts] all seem to have the same root, which implies interesting things about the literal translation of "house". makes sense though, given what we've seen of noble houses and how they work.
colnbluth [non-drow] is quite possibly a compound word, even though it doesn't have the apostrophe; dobluth [outcast] seems to have the same suffix, so my guess is that -bluth translates to something like banished/exile. given that, colnbluth could literally translate to something like "outsiders-banished", with a pre-existing plural on "outsiders". if pluralized differently, likely to be "colnbluthen", or remain "colnbluth"; i'm not sure. outcast, though, would most likely be pluralized as "dobluthen".
darthiir [surface elves/traitors] does not seem to have a plural form, or is the plural form already. my guess is this, like rivvil/rivvin, is a word that got eroded by speaking quickly on raids, and that older forms of the language had it closer to "darthirrin" or "darthiirrin" or smth, following the same -in/-en ending.
in conclusion:
the drow language is wildly irregular, rather complicated, and yet does still have Some common threads along words that make it feel like a real language. go forth and write fic well with this new information and analysis or whatever
#sundrops#rpgs#d&d#drow#this took me at least half an hour give me attention please <3#legend of drizzt#< - only kind of but it'll probably be real helpful for fic writers in that fandom so like there ya go#also feel free to give me words i don't address and i can probably pluralize them for you :]#forgotten realms
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don't come crying - a young!Raphael fic
An incredible rendition of young!Raphael by @shahs1221, here: please go check her out and give her some well-deserved adoration for it!
A/N: I'm gonna be so honest, I have no idea how to tag this in a comprehensible way, relationship-wise. Suffice to say, the Mephisto-lovers are... probably going to appreciate this more than I wish you would, and if you too are fifty leagues down the Niche Forgotten Realms Charactersâą rabbit hole, you may also be enticed by the Baalphegor inclusion. 18+, please and thank you.
Summary:
Raphael blinks, attempting to reason past the howling fury within him. He has never before felt so truly attuned to his more fiendish instincts, working in concert with his mortal ones in a truly dangerous storm. He swore when he first came to this wretched plane that he would be its master one day, and heâll be damned â well and truly â if he fails here. Or: Centuries prior to the events of the game, Raphael's return from a routine fetch quest on Mephistopheles's orders is interrupted by a summons to the throne room. His father has a lesson to impart to him, and he's going to ensure it sticks.
This is part of an ongoing story I've had in the back of my mind for several weeks now. Rather than another WIP longfic, I'll be posting additional segments from this 'verse in a series if/when I add more. If @sky-kiss has any say in it, I'm sure I will.
The only background info you really need is:
All characters are drawn from actual Forgotten Realms lore.
Raphael has recently been plucked from the Material Plane to join his father's court on Cania, in the Nine Hells.
Due to Raphael's stunted development, and an unwillingness to be shamed by his spawn's weakness, Mephistopheles has placed Raphael under the purview of his consort, Baalphegor.
Baalphegor's body is able to produce an empowering draught, too weak to hold much significance to true fiends, but sufficient to bolster Raphael's growth.
Finally, it is a pet headcanon I've incorporated into this 'verse that Baalphegor is the same individual later know as Haarlep, but you are welcome to use your own interpretation.
Raphael stumbles through the extravagant entrance doors to Mephistar, the flesh-shearing winds of Cania grabbing after him as he ducks behind the solid, enchanted stone. Heâs done his best to cover all exposed skin, but there is always some that escapes his notice, leaving him bleeding out strength he can ill afford to lose. He loathes these âerrandsâ his father sends him on, tasks purported to test his skill, devotion, and cunning. In reality, it feels more like busywork designed to keep him weak and subservient, reminding him of his contentious existence in the hierarchy and reinforcing his dependence on his fatherâs dubious goodwill.
The desiccated parchment that proved the focus of this most recent quest crinkles slightly, as he shifts his gaze up, the slight sound echoing across the cavernous hall as he looks with certainty for the being he knows to be waiting for his return, just as always. But â theyâre not there.
He furrows his brow, an agitated and disquieting anger growing within his gut. He strides across the marble floor on frostbitten feet he can barely feel, shoving the parchment at the lone figure of Mephistophelesâs chamberlain Barbas, standing at attention at his post, and wearing his habitual sneer as he looks down at Raphael. Raphael ignores it for now, as ever, but files the snub away with all the other insults he will one day be strong enough to return tenfold.
âWhere is mâthe Lady Baalphegor?â He demands imperiously. They are almost always waiting for him upon his return to bestow his reward. That is the deal, the entire reason he engages in these banal fetch quests even though they are entirely beneath his rank and status. He pushes sharply at the errant thought of the pretty fiction it makes, knowing all the while that his true choice is to bow to his fatherâs whims or perish. True or not, it does no good to dwell on such matters, not when he will be changing them just as soon as he can manage.
Barbasâs sneer gouges even deeper into his face, growing a biting and nearly gleeful edge as he answers Raphael, âWell, young lord, as your august presence must surely have ascertained, the Lady is certainly not here.â
Raphael can feel his face going blotchy and red, and curses his mortal heritage once again for its constant betrayals. The ice-blue crystals in the eye sockets of the chamberlain harden and glint with glee at the sight. Raphael spins on his heel, marching furiously away, the parchment crumpling further within his fist. Barbasâs mocking voice rings out behind him, âDonât forget to report to His Grace, little lord! He insisted it be done immediately upon your return.â
Raphael almost turns again to berate him, but manages to stop himself at the last moment, lest he lose even more face from the encounter. Heâll make his report as quickly as possible, then hunt down his wayward⊠Baalphegor, and claim his rightful recompense. The brilliant halls of Mephistar blur around him as he storms through them, focusing only on making his way to his fatherâs great hall with haste.
He doesnât wait to be announced, merely pushes firmly on the doors, both with his physical form and, in a manner only recently attained, with the lashings of his own metaphysical aspect. They creak open, the sound like distant screams even on the well-kept mechanisms, and he steps through without hesitation, words of complaint already springing to his lips, when he stops dead in his tracks.
Heâs found Baalphegor.
The succubus â and they are in full succubus form in this moment â is perched indolently on his fatherâs lap, where he sits on his ostentatious throne. But not just perched, no â impaled, as he finds when, with stricken eyes, he watches them move their body in a smooth, undulating motion up, degree by degree, before dropping back down, brilliant hair falling around them and catching the flickering hellfire-light as it glints off their red-brown skin. Soft, melodious moans are driven from their throat with each movement, as if pushed out by the â by the member within them. Their round breasts shift with the motion, the revitalizing milk within them welling up and dripping down their chest, squandered and disregarded.
He swallows, throat dry, his eyes and chest burning in stark opposition with one another.
His father casts an apathetic glance across the hall, and his eyes alight on Raphael, a cruel smirk curling at his lips. âAh, the returning triumphant! What have you brought me this time?â His voice is nothing but mocking, no attempt made to couch his disregard for his unwanted and unloved spawn.
Raphael blinks, attempting to reason past the howling fury within him. He has never before felt so truly attuned to his more fiendish instincts, working in concert with his mortal ones in a truly dangerous storm. Everything within him is raging at the broken contract, even as it boils with jealousy at the manhandling of something that is his, and it is only the barest dregs of his staunch self-preservation that manage to keep him from attempting something truly foolish. He swore when he first came to this wretched plane that he would be its master one day, and heâll be damned â well and truly â if he fails here.
He holds the parchment, now looking rather worse for wear, out before him on a finely trembling hand. He searches for the words he needs in a mind nearly whited out by rage.
âI⊠your cult in Waterdeep sends their obeisance, yâyour Grace.â He curses his tongue for its fumbling, driving home further how well his fatherâs ploy is working to discomfit him.
âOh,â Mephistopheles waves a careless hand. âThat collection of rabble. You will leave it with my steward.â
Raphael ducks his head a bare inch, keeping his eyes away from Baalphegor as much as he can, and turns to leave.
His fatherâs voice rings out after him before he has completed even half his turn, sharpening with the first warning edges of his infamous temper. âWhere do you think you are going, whelp? You have not yet been dismissed.â
Raphael turns back to face him, slow and careful, as the true danger of the situation sets in. He has rarely found himself in the presence of his father when these moods strike, and never without at least the tenuous support of Baalphegor behind him. And yet⊠he meets their gaze now, searching, and the barest fraction desperate, but there is nothing. Their red eyes meet his without flinching, cold as Caniaâs glaciers. Trickles of the subtly shimmering draught spilling from their breasts have reached down to their hips now, soaking into the thatch of hair between their legs.
He tears his eyes away and forces his attention back to the far greater threat, scrambling for an answer that will satisfy his father.
âMy apologies, your Grace.â The epithet comes easier this time, its passage eased by his awareness of his own precarious position. âI misunderstood your direction, and wished only to carry out your will with utmost alacrity.â
Mephistopheles rests his chin insouciantly on his hand, elbow propped against the arm of his throne. His voice, when he speaks, is sardonic and shows no signs of the ongoing actions of the succubus on his lap. âOh very nicely salvaged, whelp. My wishes, however, are for you to remain just where you are, and appreciate the lesson Iâve prepared for you.â
Raphael swallows, the boiling heat within him growing fiercer, rage intertwined with other, less-savory feelings.
With little warning, Mephistopheles moves his hand to entangle within Baalphegorâs tresses, pulling the succubus fiercely down onto him as he wrenches their head back against his shoulder. A tremulous cry breaks from their throat, and Raphael only barely keeps himself from starting forward at the sound.
Mephistopheles brings his free hand forward and toys with Baalphegorâs breasts, pushed forward into the air from their current position. He twists pitilessly at them, prompting yet more cries as the liquid inside spills out in greater quantities, splashing, wasted, against the smooth skin of Baalphegorâs stomach. It runs in rivulets onto the throne, and down, to collect into puddles on the floor of the grand hall.
Raphael feels his stomach turn even as his mouth, well-trained by association, waters, unhindered by every other horrible aspect of this waking nightmare.
Mephistopheles wipes his hand dismissively on Baalphegorâs hair, leaving behind silvery streaks, then draws them up by their hair and hip, beginning to move within them in earnest as he continues his reproach. Raphael wants to close his eyes, his ears, every one of his senses, but knows such an admission of weakness would be worse than his undoing.
âYouâve prevailed enough upon my largess, and I am no longer willing to indulge your weakness.â Mephistopheles sneers. âYouâve proven more fortunate than any other cambion within the Hells, but from now on you will make your own way, or fail. Such is the way of Baator.â
The fires around the hall burn fiercer in alignment with their lord as he looks down at his unloved progeny. âShould you find yourself desperate for one last taste to stay your appetites, however, you may lap it from the floor like the whelp you are, and thank me for the concession.â
Raphael feels like he is become hellfire himself, the hatred he knew within him for his progenitor stoked to dizzyingly fierce new heights. Jaw aching with the effort of withholding the flood of vitriol within him, he grits out, âMy thanks for your⊠beneficence. I would not dream of prevailing upon it further.â
Mephistopheles snorts, dismissive, then turns his attentions back to Baalphegor, by all accounts having forgotten Raphaelâs entire existence.
Raphael stands, Baalphegorâs unfeeling eyes burning into his, until he is finally â finally â dismissed. All the while, the ambitions within him, already cast in carbon, are pressurized further and further, until they are as fearsome diamond, reflecting the blood and fire around him.
He will not remain his fatherâs lesser for long. He will see him deposed, and make him suffer for these indignities heaped upon his person.
By Asmodeus, he swears it.
#voidling speaks#my writing#my fic#bg3#bg3 fanfiction#bg3 fic#bg3 raphael#baldur's gate 3#raphael x haarlep#haarlep#young!raphael#raphael#mephistopheles#baalphegor#merry cursed-mas y'all#vflu compliant#forgotten realms#cfmi
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How to help Karlach in your post-game fix-it fics:
Assuming you didn't skip a lot of content, we end the game at character level 12 with enough XP to be this >< close to level 13. Level 13 Clerics gain access to the 7th-level spell Regenerate, which can regrow missing body parts.
So Karlach really only needs to chill out in Avernus for like a week while we take Shadowheart out adventuring to get enough XP to level up. Then we can use Helsik's ritual to portal into Avernus and grow Karlach a new heart.
The D&D module Descent Into Avernus has a bunch of useful info on the setting if you want to write about the process of tracking down Karlach once you arrive in Avernus. Since she lived there for 10 years, if this plan is hatched before she's forced to return then she should be able to recommend a meeting spot or somewhere you can leave her a message that you've arrived. Regardless, the Infernal Rapture restaurant in the Wandering Emporium is apparently the only place in Avernus you can get a meal that doesn't taste like ash, and thus that seems like a good spot to plan to meet or wait for someone to eventually pass through.
Removing the infernal engine first to make room for the regenerated heart might be tricky, so take Dammon with you. Since it's been functioning as an artificial heart and Faerun hasn't yet developed the artificial life support technologies used during heart transplants, Karlach will almost certainly briefly die at least once during the process, so also load up on Revivify scrolls.
You may need to cast Revivify more than once if she technically dies multiple times during the process because death and resurrection in D&D aren't just biological processes; they're also recalling the soul to the body. BG3 was very generous with the time limit (IIRC it just has to be done before the next long rest), but standard D&D rules are that it must be cast within a minute of death. To be on the safe side, I'd recommend spamming Revivify once per minute until the "surgery" is complete.
Getting back out of Avernus could also be tricky, so you likely need to leave someone behind in Baldur's Gate to periodically perform the ritual to reopen the portal for your return.
(My "Modern Girl in Faerun" self-insert WIP was originally going to be just a retelling of the events of the game, but I've already got enough post-game plotlines for a sequel and I'm nowhere close to finish writing the first story yet lol. Like yes Gale I will return to Waterdeep with you, but we gotta do a thing for Karlach first. And then even once we're back from Avernus, wedding planning in Waterdeep might hit a few hiccups with the events of Dragon Heist and Dungeon of the Mad Mage unfolding in the background. Damnit, Volo, we're on our way to a cake tasting appointment, we don't have time for this shit, go recruit someone else.)
#BG3#baldur's gate 3#bg3 fanfic prompt#bg3 fic prompt#bg3 fic idea#bg3 fanfic idea#Karlach#Karlach Cliffgate#Karlach BG3#BG3 Karlach#Avernus#dungeons & dragons#dungeons and dragons#dnd#d&d#Forgotten Realms#it's a lovely morning in faerun and i am a horrible author self insert
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Thinking about Astarion (because of course I am) and the spell True Resurrection.
Thereâs been some debate over the dates on his headstone and how long heâs been dead and how old he was when he died. The dates are listed kinda weird, but the general consensus is that heâs exactly at or just under 200 years (un)dead.
It is true that, as written, the creature must be dead âno longer than 200 yearsâ for the spell to work.
However.
I think you can argue that in Astarionâs case (and for vampires in general) that it doesnât matter.
Of course, to work within the confines of the game, the spell has to be written with specific rules and limits. However, rules can be bent and in a tabletop setting, this would be up to DM discretion. As you can see in the spell description, the soul of the creature must also be free and willing to return to life and their body must not have died of old age. So, why the 200-year restriction? To answer that question, letâs talk about souls in the Forgotten Realms.
In general, when an ensouled creature dies, the soul moseys on over to the fugue plane over the course of a few days or even up to a month. This is why there are different resurrection spells that have to be used within a minute or ten days; because the soul is still sorta hanging around.
Once on the fugue plane, the soul just kinda hangs out. Waiting. After about a tenday-ish, a divine postal worker from the soulâs chosen deity comes to pick up the soul and deliver it to its final resting place on the home plane of their deity. The soul canât be forced or tricked into following the wrong mailman. And there are exceptions to this rule as well. For instance, a soul who wasnât particularly faithful might end up waiting centuries before someone shows up. If they wait too long, the soul may fade out of existence or Kelemvor may judge them before then.
Once the soul has been prime-delivered to their deityâs planar doorstep, they become a petitioner and their form and the nature of the afterlife can vary wildly depending on who they follow. Some exist in bliss or anguish. Memories of their life on Toril may fade. In the case of elves, they tend to retain their individuality and identity and may eventually be reincarnated in a cycle seeking perfection.
(Note: non-elven petitioners of the Seldarine pantheon of Arvandor could appear as elven or with elven features in death even if they were not elves in their mortal life. Same goes for drow, dwarves, gnomes, and halflings and their respective gods and planes. So you could even make the argument that a non-elf could then enter the elven reincarnation cycle and be elven in their future life if they worship Sehanine Moonbow or Corellon Larethian, etc. Consider also that the Reincarnation spell has the potential to change a dead creature into almost any race without effecting their soul; therefore reincarnating an elf into a tiefling but not removing them from their normal elven reincarnation cycle.)
(But I digress)
The point is, when you are raising a creature from the dead, you are pulling them from somewhere in that natural process. Depending on how long they have been dead, they may no longer exist, or may have little to no memory of their mortal life, they may not want to come back, they may have already been reincarnated into another life, or you might be pissing off some deity. In fact, once a soul is a petitioner, their deity has to approve of their return to life as well. Not to mention, for most souls there may not be much worth coming back to after 200 years; there is likely nothing remaining of their former life and loved ones.
Again, the soul must be both free and willing.
So what about Astarion? To bastardize his own quote: his soul is RIGHT THERE.
He died, sure, but his soul didnât go anywhere. If you didnât ascend him, you know his soul exists intact. Itâs not on the fugue plane or any final resting plane and hasnât been reincarnated. His body is dead(ish), but didnât die of old age. Not to mention, the Monster Manual specifically lists (re)killing them and bringing them back to life as a potential way to cure a vampire.
Assuming that Astarion is willing to return to a full, mortal life, I see no barrier to True Resurrecting him⊠except that you might need to kill him first⊠and you need a fuckton of diamonds.
In short: think of the 200-year thing as more of a guideline than a rule. Alternatively, consider that Astarion may have been un-dead for a good long time, but he has not been dead-dead for 200 years.
Now, go forth Tavs! Go kill and resurrect your vampire boyfriend!
#this one is for the angst-with-a-happy-ending fic writers#astarion ancunin#baldurâs gate 3#bg3 posting#I spend too much time thinking about death in the forgotten realms#I play a grave cleric worshipper of a homebrew goddess who rules over The Grey#best described as the transition area in the fugue plane for souls#my DM tweaked the fugue a bit because death is fucky in TFR and she didnât like the normal process#said cleric is the tabaxi in my pfp#but Iâm rambling again
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i love sincerely love working with dungeon meshi's magic system and the way mana sickness is depicted, like it has the breadth and scope for some truly powerful and wacky fun shit, but you can also easily bring down the hammer when you want to put the characters in difficult situations they can't get out of without a little creativity. i found when writing for baldur's gate 3 that, unless i was in a modified setting, i was hard-pressed thinking up fun ways for characters to solve their problems without just using magic, especially for the small things. i mean, what fun is throwing a character into a river and needing to warm them up when you can just cast prestidigitation?? it's one of the first things a novice can learn and also it's a cantrip, it literally costs nothing!
#dungeon meshi#not that im thinking of throwing anyone into a river or anything đ#but like for example i was reading this one fic where character A had gotten injured in a fight and there was blood everywhere#and they needed to hide the mess from character B for angst reasons#and i thought 'ooooohh character A isn't going to get it cleaned up fast enough and character B is going to find the blood#but then i remembered oh ya ... character A can just clean it all away with a snap of their fingers#and it took the wind right out of my sails haha#i suppose that's just a gale girlie problem tho đ„ș#that moment in the sick fic where kabru had to debate if it was worth it to dry off his shirt#like i loved having the opportunity to write him running a cost benefit analysis like that haha#dm isn't like the first series to equate depleted mana as fatigue or anything and forgotten realms has spell slots#but idk the way mana sickness is depicted just really works for me#especially having healing potentially hurting just as bad as the injury itself that FUCKS and idk if i've ever seen that before đ€#side note this is also why the magic system in hunter x hunter is one of the best in any piece of media ever
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Berdusk, the Jewel of the Vale, a Harper strongholdâjust another city on the caravan route. Wherein: The Gate crew try to teach Olly some life lessons; Nora decides how much danger she truly wants in her life; it's a strange feeling to be young in a world that wants you to grow up as soon as possible.
aka Dust gets way too deep into D&D lore research, and writes a YA romance
I feel like I need to preface that this is very different from most of my other explicit work, so if you're here looking for smut, you will be disappointed. The characters are of age, but youngâin their late teens/early 20s. The raciest thing that happens is a kiss. Be forewarned!
p.s. this is Olly, in case you forgot :)
photo credit @captainsigge
somewhere I have never travelled
Fandom: Baldur's Gate 3, Forgotten Realms (D&D)
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Relationships: Olly (Baldur's Gate)/Original Female Character
Additional Tags: Zhentarim (Dungeons & Dragons), Mistaken Identity, Young Love, Drunken Kissing
Read on AO3 (3190 words)
#bg3 olly#protect olly at all costs#rugan is in it but blink and you'll miss him#my ocs#bg3 fanfic#forgotten realms#my writing#dustdeepsea fic: somewhere I have never travelled
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Astarionâs reaction to Tav suggesting he might be aging has been rattling around in my head, and itâs got me thinking angsty little thoughts about how cruelly he mightâve been to a human lover in the past. Relationships between elves and shorter lived races require so much compassion and maturity and Astarion...doesnât have any of that. He was the sort to become smitten with a beautiful young human and let the relationship drag on for far far too long. Oh he would say sweet things in their ear during partyâs and spend a small fortune on jewels that would compliment their skin and the season, but the doting was purely selfish. Astarion wanted a blushing beauty on his arm the same way he wanted an ermine coat. It was nice to own but it was even nicer to drink up the envy of everyone who did not.
And he drank deep for as long as he could, but his humanâs beauty withered away little by little. They poured decades worth of their heart into him only to see Astarionâs lips curl in disgust when the lines around their eyes crinkle. To the human he was their whole world, but a few decades is hardly a fling to a high elf. Really he was a saint staying with them until their 40th nameday...or just about...but it was well past time for a change. He wouldnât keep roses in his foyer after theyâd begun to rot so why would he use less discernment with his choice in bedfellows. There were tears, of course, accompanying insults and accusations of being a heartless curr. It mightâve moved him if the face those tears sprang from wasnât so unpleasant, but instead he just shooed them from the estate and busied himself with preparations to meet his next potential paramour later that evening. ... He never made it. Cazador practically had to scrape him off the cobblestone to force the blood down his throat. Afterwards, the idea of being loved...of being looked at with kindness becomes laughable. Now his lot in life is doing his masterâs bidding and hoping heâll be allowed to suck rotten ichor from vermin. Through all the torment his face remains untouched by the centuries.Â
#okay and now imagine Tav is the reincarnation of the lover he spurned#The Forgotten realms has too many versions of the afterlife for me to keep up with sometimes#but im pretty sure a soul can be reborn#please i just want poetic karmic lovers for Tav and Astarion#astarion#bg3#bg3 fic#some gendy nutch rambles for the crew
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Archdevils Do Not Dream | Forgotten Realms | 880 words | AO3
Summary: You are an Archdevil. And Archdevils do not dream.
---
Archdevils do not dream.
Dreaming is for mortals, for lesser beings, for those without the power of Baator flowing through their veins. Dreaming is for those who are not the only thing standing between the endless tides of sickening chaos that spew forth from the Abyss and the fragile existence of the Material Plane.
Dreaming is not for the likes of you. Not any more.
Yet the claws of fatigue dig into your body, all-powerful as it is. Wading through ichor and blood and fire takes its toll upon even your tireless arms and while Archdevils do not dream they must, on occasion, sleep. In those moments of caught breath and unconscious blackness there pluck at your senses scraps of visions. Memories, perhaps â things that you have not thought of in long, long years. Things you cannot, will not, think of.
The war takes up all the space in your mind anyway. There is no room for reminiscence because the hordes of the Abyss, foul and wretched, spare as little time for rest as you do. They do not dream either and their incursions are one long, waking nightmare of horror that leaves no time to recall those that stood at your side in ages long gone. There is no time to see the flickering shades of humans standing where now stand osyluth and barbazu and spinagon and erinyes. The only standard that matters is the one bearing your blazing insignia, your burning sword the last thing the demonic filth ever see before you scour them from existence. There cannot be a standard of a shining sun at your side because in Avernus there is no sun. There is only a sky red as the blood that coats your every waking moment, only clouds like breaking scabs and lightning like sorrow and oil-slick crimson rain that makes your wings sizzle and your halo steam.
In the citadel of Avernus there are no mirrors. When you came here they hung â or so it seemed â in every room of this brutal, lonely place. In frames of gold and black that glittering glass haunted you, taunted you from every thrice-accursed wall no matter where you turned in the endless fortress now yours to call home. You forbade the serving imps and spinagons to collect the shards. Still they lie below the empty, broken, twisted frames, imprints of your claws still in the metal. It matters not to you, who spends no time at all here save for when duty demands it.
Other Archdukes are reluctant to meet with you on the front lines â cowards that they are. Afraid of a little ichor on their hands, as if it would react poorly with the other blood that stains them.
Unlike them you are proud of the stains on your hands because in acquiring them you have accomplished something. Whilst the rest of this conniving anthill that calls itself the Nine Hells may be content to sit and scheme against itself, gathering power here and promises there for pointless ends, you, oh, you have far greater ideals than they. Despite how they sneer and whisper, deriding your youth and your inexperience and yourâŠregrettable origins. What does any of that matter when you hold the line?
Without you their precious schemes would mean nothing. Without you, Baator would be naught but chaos, a new playground for the Abyss to ruin. Without you they would be nothing! Lords of failure and dust and they would fade into howling obscurity and every web they ever wove would come crashing down upon them to suffocate their ever-lying mouths.
And so they will not meet with you in your place of power. They will not come where you fight. Only in this vast and empty citadel will they come to you, this ancient place with its echoing halls and broken mirrors. They do not say anything to your face, no, that would be far too obvious. But they see, and they know, and you know that they file that sliver of broken glass knowledge away as a weakness and an exploit they will one day make use of.
It does not matter.
What will they do? March on your fortress with a great mirror and force you to look at yourself? As if the reflection will hurt more writ large than it ever did in the shards. As if seeing the whole will somehow be worse than the parts, than the glimpses of burning eyes, burning wings, burning soul that follow you everywhere you go. As if you do not carry the weight of this body with you, as if you are not aware of the skin that wraps your bones. How little they understand. It does not matter if the body is wrong, all that matters is that the mind is right.
And your mind is still right. The body follows the mind, follows orders, and you were ever good at giving those. The mind functions as it should and it does not need memories, it does not need dreams and it does not see humans where there are only devils. For though you did dream, once, and though that dream was grand, you do not dream any more.
You are an Archdevil. And Archdevils do not dream.
#zariel#archduke zariel#forgotten realms#descent into avernus#descent into avernus fanfiction#forgotten realms fanfiction#forgotten realms fic#fanfiction#dungeons and dragons fanfiction#i have Decided to crosspost some fic#maybe. idk we'll see if i wanna do more#anyway please enjoy The Zariel Fic I Wrote a year and a half ago#i have thoughts and feelings about that girl okay#my fic
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out of context tag
tagged by @eccaiia, thank you! as always i love taking lines out of context from Obsession fics, because my boy Vizaeth cannot be normal for five minutes.
Rules: Post a line (or more) without any context and pass the tag on.
[ID - a red decorative divider]
Itâs only by Lolthâs malicious grace that he crawled from his motherâs womb somewhere other than the gutter.
[ID - a red decorative divider]
no-pressure tagging @viscerawrites @ustalav and @noblebs
Obsession taglist: @foxboyclit (ask to be +/-)
#writeblr#tag games#out of context tag#snippets#fanfiction#forgotten realms fanfiction#obsession fic blogging#c: vizaeth thaezyr#i havenât had nearly as much time to work on this fic as i wanted this week#i want to get my teeth back into vizaethâs Problems!!
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Developing Feelings in the Underdark
Here's another little one-shot of my OC - Mara - and Astarion's developing relationship.
No trigger warnings.
Enjoy!
_______
Mara smiled and playfully nudged the pale elf, âCome on. Letâs get back to camp before the others wake up and come looking for us. If you behave yourself, I may even allow you to drink from me.âÂ
âExcuse me,â Astarion scoffed as he rose to his feet and extended a hand to Mara, âI am always a perfect gentleman. Come on letâs go. I need to feed and I donât want an audience.âÂ
The Underdark was freezing.Â
Even wrapped in a thick wool cloak and sitting beside the fire, Mara could not drive the numbing cold from her body. Desperately, Mara rubbed her hands together and blew against her frozen fingertips as a chill ran down her spine. Mara missed the comfort and familiarity of their old camp. The gentle sound of the river crashing against the sandy shores, the warm spring breeze that tousled her hair at night, and staring into the stars to fall asleep.Â
Of course, the Underdark was beautiful in its own right. But it was a dark dangerous beauty. Everything was a beautiful threat; from the bright pastel bioluminescent mushrooms to the natives. It was hard to relax in a place that would devour you the moment you let your guard down.Â
But the worst part was the chill that ran through the Underdark. It was worse at night when the party attempted to relax.Â
âShitty excuse for a sorcerer,â Mara muttered as she conjured a small fireball and held it in her hands, âCanât even think of a single warming spell.âÂ
The small fireball radiated enough heat to thaw Maraâs frozen fingers. She let out a satisfied sigh and smiled. Mara tilted her head back resting against the thick mushroom stem she was sitting against. The stem was rubbery and covered with a thin layer of lilac velvet fibers that felt similar to the tapestries lining the walls of her bedroom in the Upper City.
The rest of the party slept a few feet away from Mara. Shadowheart dragged her bedroll closer to Karlach to absorb some of the Tieflingâs heat. Shadowheart wrapped herself in a heavy blanket and didnât bother to change out of her armor for the added warmth. Karlachâs infernal engine glowed a dull red and raided enough heat to keep her comfortable. Karlach slept in her camp clothes on top of her bedroll, blissfully ignorant of the bone-chilling cold the rest fo the party experienced. Mara imagined the cold air felt amazing for Karlach.Â
Her eyes fluttered to Astarionâs empty bedroll. After Karlach and Shadowheart were fast asleep, Astarion said he was going hunting and left. That was a little over two hours ago and though she would never admit it, Mara was growing worried. Mara knew Astarion was more than capable of taking care of himself, but this was the Underdark.Â
Memories of the Gur monster hunter tugged on Maraâs mind. She nervously chewed on her lower lip as the memory replayed in her mind. Cazadorâs influence extended to a putrid bog in the middle of nowhere. If that monster could send one lone monster hunter after Astarion, what would stop Cazador from sending more?Â
Panic began bubbling in Maraâs stomach as her imagination ran wild. Mara dismissed the fireball and scrambled to her feet. She grabbed her daggers and quietly crept out of camp in the direction Astarion disappeared hours ago.Â
Mara found a pair of light footprints in the mud and followed the trail to the water's edge. After a few moments of searching, Mara found Astarion perched on a rock overlooking the dark purple waters of the underground lake. Astarion seemed to be lost in thought as he twirled one of his twin daggers in his hand.
But he appeared to be unharmed.Â
Mara let out a sigh of relief. Maraâs shoulders dropped and her heart stopped beating against her chest as she quietly approached the rock.Â
âYou should be back at camp keeping watch,â Astarion sneered as Mara sat beside him.Â
âYou were taking too long,â Mara muttered as she pulled her knees to her chest. She wrapped her arms around her legs and rested her chin on her knees.Â
A comfortable silence fell between the pair as they watched dull lights flicker off the lakeâs quiet surface. The Arcane Tower loomed over the lake in the far distance as did the skeleton of the long-forgotten village. Fire beetles flew along the waterâs surface before landing on massive branches of Barrelstalk protruding from the water. The distant hum of the Circleâs song echoed in the peaceful darkness. It was beautiful.Â
In moments of silence like this, Mara was reminded of how deeply she used to long for freedom like this. Just weeks earlier, Mara was trapped in her fatherâs manor, watched like a prisoner by his guards and the Guild, and she was desperate for freedom. All she had for company were books and Kethan.
Now she was free. Parasite aside, this was the happiest point in her life. Mara was certain she could die this very moment a happy woman because she experienced more life in the past few weeks than she ever had in twenty-five years. Mara had friends, she took a lover, she broke free of one of her shackles, and embraced the magic she spent years fearing.Â
Living - truly living - was intoxicating and Mara wanted more.Â
Mara wanted to walk the same streets in Neverwinter that her mother once walked. She wanted to feel passion, she wanted to command the magic inside her to reign fire upon their enemies, she wanted to dance carefree with her friends once more, and she wanted to fall in love.Â
Mara could be satisfied with the sliver of life she experience these past few weeks, but she desperately wanted more.Â
Astarion noticed Mara far off in thought. A small crease formed between her dark brows as her golden-speckled blue eyes gazed across the water's surface. He also noticed Mara shivering.Â
âGo back to camp and sit by the fire. I can hear your teeth chattering,â Astarion flicked a small pebble into the water.Â
Mara shook her head and pulled her cloak tighter around herself, âThe others are fine. I just want to sit here for a moment and think.âÂ
Once again silence fell between the pair. Astarion watched Mara out of the corner of his eye. Mara was losing hold of the woman she once was; the scared noble who was terrified by her own magic was slipping away. Astarion could see the confidence building inside Mara, and a part of him envied the young-half elf.Â
She was breaking free from her chains, and as happy as Astarion was it terrified him. A more confident Mara meant she may not turn to him as much, wouldnât confide in him as much, and he would lose his sway over him.Â
It meant Mara may not need him.Â
The building feelings Astarion still refused to acknowledge bubbled in the pit of his stomach. He hated himself for being worried that Mara would abandon him. Astarion replayed how fiercely she defended him to the others after he bit her in his mind.Â
Astarion couldnât let her abandon him - he needed Mara.Â
âPerhaps I was too quick to turn away your company,â Astarion smoothed his voice and silently stepped into his familiar seductive character. He turned towards Mara and frowns at her shivering. He shrugs off his cloak and drapes it over Maraâs small frame.Â
âThere,â he says as he engulfs her smaller form in the cloak, âI canât have my favorite little sorceress freezing, can I?âÂ
A soft gentle smile appeared on Maraâs face, âWonât you be cold without your cloak?âÂ
Astarion shook his head as he moved to sit closer beside Mara, âNo, the cold doesnât affect me the way it affects others. You see, itâs one of the many benefits of my,â he paused for a moment to consider his choice of words, âcondition.âÂ
Maraâs smile slipped from her face as her fingers gripped the heavy cloak tighter. She nervously chewed her lower lip before mustering to the courage to speak, âThank you, Astarion.âÂ
Astarion loathed how he melted at the sound of his name on Maraâs lips. He despised himself for the dull ache in the pit of his stomach. The selfish part of him hated that Mara dug her way into his thoughts, into his feelings.Â
âConsider it payment for the times you allowed me to dine on that delicious neck of yours,â Astarion replied as he flashed her a seductive smile.Â
âYou owe me nothing for that,â Maraâs voice was soft and sciencere, âYou needed it, so I helped you.âÂ
Astarion hated how helpful Mara insisted on being. Whether it was a thieving child or a captured gnome, Mara extended her kindness to whoever needed it. She did it without expecting anything in return. She did it all while fearing they would think her a monster if they saw the magic inside her.Â
âStop being so nice. The hasnât been kind to you. Why do you insist on showing everyone kindness when you receive little in return?â Astarion grumbled as a gentle breeze rushed through the pair. The wind carried her scent and it was like a drug for Astarion.Â
Mara sat silently for a moment pondering his question. She hated how right Astarion was; the world offered Mara very little in terms of kindness. She never knew the love of a parent, was lied to and manipulated her whole life, and kept as a prisoner in her own home. The first time she successfully breaks free of Ilidanâs clutches sent her right into the waiting arms of Mind Flayers, and now she was on a hunt to remove a parasite that would surly kill her. Mara had no rease to show the world any kindness, yet it was the obvious choice at every turn.Â
Mara was determined not to posin herself against the world and show the world every ounce of kindness it denied her.Â
âYouâre right, I have no reason to show strangers the kindness I do. But it makes me happy,â Mara twirled her mothers ring around her finger, âI canât become the monster my father made me believe I was. If I let my anger and resentment consumer me, then he wins.âÂ
Astarion heard the determination in her voice and chose not to push Mara on the subject. Instead, he filled his mind with images of the gloriously evil ways he would destroy Ilidan the moment he set eyes on the elf.Â
âWell then,â Astarion sighed as he leaned back, âThen I guess Iâll have to stick around to keep the world from devouring you. I canât have my favorite midnight snack being taken advantage of.âÂ
Mara smiled and playfully nudged the pale elf, âCome on. Letâs get back to camp before the others wake up and come looking for us. If you behave yourself, I may even allow you to drink from me.âÂ
âExcuse me,â Astarion scoffed as he rose to his feet and extended a hand to Mara, âI am always a perfect gentleman. Come on letâs go. I need to feed and I donât want an audience.âÂ
Mara allowed Astarion to pull her to her feet and the pair began walking back to camp.
Both attempted to ignore their building feelings for each other.Â
#astarion#baldurs gate astarion#bg3#gale of waterdeep#astarion x tav#baldur's gate 3#baldurs gate oc#astarion x mc#astarion fic#baldurs gate 3#video game fanfic#writers on tumblr#writerscommunity#female writers#dnd 5e#the forgotten realms#the underdark
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Naturae Ferox
Summary:
Caught up in the manipulation and seduction of a certain vampire, Fen struggles with her own sense of control and autonomy, all whilst struggling to hide her own secrets.
A druid without connection. A Chosen without faith. Rage without control.
Pairing: Astarion x Fem OC
Warnings: Graphic Depictions of Violence, Non-Con, Smut, Slavery, Abuse, Blood-Drinking, PTSD, Dissociation, Sexual abuse, Alcohol use.
All Chapters on AO3
Chapter 1: Clean
Chapter 2: Outsider
Chapter 3: Blasphemy
Chapter 4: Honesty
Chapter 5: Reflection
Chapter 6: Connection
Chapter 7: Rage
Chapter 8: Devotion
Chapter 9: Wine
Chapter 10: Moonlight
Chapter 11: Sunlight
Chapter 12: Scars
Chapter 13: Fire
Chapter 14: Truth
Chapter 15: Shackles
Chapter 16: Arrow
Chapter 17: Bottles
Chapter 18 : Pages
#astarion#astarion ancunin#astarion fanfic#baldurs gate 3#astarion x oc#astarion x tav#astarion x female tav#forgotten realms#astarion smut#astarion fic
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After the transformation (death) of a friend, Shadowheart and Karlach go on a journey to take their effects home.
--
Theyâre not dead, just gone.
Theyâre not dead, just gone.
(She tries to think about Omeluum. She tries not to think about how Omeluum is not the name of its old host.)
Itâs easiest to pray to SelĂ»ne on their behalf. When itâs not about them, she never knows what to say.
#my first published fic in three calendar years good god#i have a bunch of notes about this in the actual fic and in my docs. ask me about how this au works and i will cry with joy#my writing#baldur's gate 3#bg3#bg3 fic#shadowheart#karlach#tav#shadowlach#it's been so long since i had to tag posts abt fic... ough#basically i created an underdark cult of selune in my head to justify the tav i'm currently using#and the implications of that for the entire campaign and especially for shadowheart. i have not been able to stop thinking about#my fic#i intend to get more into the respective writing heads of shadowheart and karlach each chapter sort of alternating i think#was rereading my beaujes stuff and remembered how much i liked writing in each of their voices. with a little practice i think i can here#also. playing bg3 and having specific thoughts and complaints based on how the game addresses certain parts of forgotten realms lore#has made me realized just how much i have learned and changed these past few years of dming and gming#it's so weird to be on this side of writing fic about a story. where i know so much more of it than is contained in the story itself
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The more I'm trying to learn about late 15th century politics of Baldur's Gate the more desperate I get. I feel like every other important event either contradicts certain stuff you learn in Baldur's Gate 3 or if it really happened it does not make sense that no one and nothing would mention in Baldur's Gate 3. I would understand if it was minor details but every other thing regarding Bhaal and bhaalspawns appears to be literally lore breaking.
#If I wish to write a fic about Gortash's raise to power I guess I'll just straight to have to pretend some things never happened?#Why did no one in larian bothered to idk open at least Faerûn wiki?#Since bg3 is supposed to fit into Forgotten Realms canon??#bg3 critical#forgotten realms#Eye ramble
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